A Bit of a Conflict

Crumbling Castles, Chapter 2

Image by Photorama from Pixabay

AD 1444, Clerkenwell, London, England

Never had the weather seemed so set against him. Walter stopped and wrung out the hem of his cloak again. Mud and water dripped onto the road under his feet. Heavy rains had turned the road from Leicestershire to London, along with his mood, into a soggy mess.

He had made it to Clerkenwell on the outskirts of London but hesitated to stop so early in the day and in such a place, for the outlying villages beyond the city wall were known for their unsavory character.

Though only a three-and-a-half-day journey at a good walking pace, it had taken nearly a week to complete the trip. He had spent the first two nights at inns along the road but soon grew weary of the company kept there. Wishing to keep his purse full for as long as possible, he had opted instead to camp along the way or accept the hospitality of those with small lodgings for a passing traveler for a fraction of the price. The weather had slowed him, as had stopping at the first city of decent size to inquire about and purchase a second horse—not that he had ridden much. He was loathe to further burden the animals and had spent more time afoot than was his wont.

Soren and the new horse shook the water from their manes together and looked at him mournfully, wishing as much as he that the rain would stop.

“Sorry, fellows,” he said to them under his breath and turned onto a side street, trying to find some shelter from the rain. “I should stop but I cannot say I know where a good stable is, and I hardly trust anyone within these disreputable houses.”

As if to prove his point, a man stumbled out of a public house into the downpour and fell sideways into the mud, clearly drunk. The man, a seedy-looking character had he been sober, squinted up at him, seemingly more befuddled by his appearance than by the water.

“’Ere, now,” he said. “You looks like you got a spot of money. Whatchyou say to comin’ inside an ’avin’ a drop wi’ us? Won’t cost you much, just a pint atween frien’s.”

Walter touched his sword hilt as a subtle warning, forcing a degree of politeness into his tone. “I daresay ’tis merry within, but I am in haste.”

The man peeled himself up from the mud, looking at him quizzically, then shrugged and went back inside, his reason for coming out apparently forgotten.

Walter moved on, not overeager to stay within sight of the doors of that particular house lest the man return with more able companions to relieve him of his gold. Giving up the idea of sheltering there, he went on until the town was left behind.

The rain seemed to lessen as he went on, settling into a quiet, grey drizzle that would not have been unpleasant were he not already wet through. He hunched forward as he went, trying to force his soaked hood to shed a little more water onto the path rather than into his eyes. Silence reigned save for the steady glup, glup of the horses’ hooves and the squelch and suck of his own footsteps in the mud. Under the leather cover of his cage, Walter could hear Ronan ruffling his feathers, trying to warm himself against the spring air.

“’Tis not far now, Ronan,” he said, his own voice falling strange and damp on his ears, as though the sound had no space to travel between the raindrops.

A muffled cry came to his ears, along with the sharp clash of steel on steel. He lifted his head, scanning the road ahead for trouble. In the distance, he could see men and horses, their forms hazy and undefined in the wet mist. They seemed to be engaged in some struggle, and as he drew nearer, the shouts grew more defined, and the definite sounds of swordplay met his ears.

He drew his own sword, the sheen of clouded daylight glimmering faintly on the polished blade as rain spattered against it, then went on with caution. There seemed to be seven men all told, four against two and another on the ground. He waited until he was within easy hearing distance before lifting his voice above their noise.

“What is all this about?” He called out. “Desist at once.”

Three sets of eyes turned to him, the nearest of the attacking party, but only momentarily. One of the two who were hard-pressed took advantage of the momentary distraction and moved in to attack. Yet he was too slow. The man refocused in the nick of time, parrying and catching the other a sharp blow in the riposte. The first stumbled back, gasping, his blade still held forward to ward off an attack. His companion, less skilled it seemed, matched his retreat, focusing only on defense.

“Desist, I said!” Walter moved closer, angry now that he saw the effects of the violence up close. The party paused again to listen, but more warily than before. “Are you mad? Do you think your actions will not be known before nightfall, attacking as you are on the King’s road and with scarce a mile to the gate? Madness and folly, even if your quarrel has good reason.” He eyed the attacking party, their garb motley and crude. “Although methinks it does not, for you are highwayman by your appearance.”

“That they are, good man,” one of the others said, not looking at Walter, all his focus on the threatening blades of those before him.

Walter noted the young man’s appearance now. He was the one who had taken the offense and been driven back. His hood was thrown back, showing a youthful face, not more than one or two and twenty, framed in brown hair hanging wet and limp to his shoulders. His clothes were torn, soiled with mud, and bloodied but showed the fine cloth and fit of tailored work. Even without the sun shining overhead, gilded spurs gleamed on his boots where the rain had washed them clean.

“They dare to threaten one of the king’s knights?” Walter stepped forward, hot wrath coursing through him. “Have you no respect for punishment?” He asked the others.

A fifth villain, hitherto unseen, stepped forward from between the horses, his manner haughty and ill-fitting his coarse appearance. His accent was strange when he spoke. “Aye, that we do, and ye’d do best to go on yer way while we give ye the chance an’ be forgettin’ ye ever saw this, else ye’ll be gettin’ some of the same.”

Walter shifted closer to stand by the two who still held their swords in defense manfully but wearily.

“Methinks ’twould be better for you to leave, lest I give you something to regret.”

“Somethin’ to regret, will ye? Pah!” The man spat on the ground. “We’ll get what we’ve earned when this is over. Don’t make no difference whether we kill one or the both of ye.”

The five closed in, nearly circling about Walter and the two strangers, like vultures about to strike.

“I would not advise it,” Walter warned, but they only laughed.

“Waste not your breath on those vagrants,” the young knight said at Walter’s side, his voice tight and low. “They are beyond reason, and if you have thrown in your lot with us, you will soon need your strength for fighting.”

Walter glanced at him, keeping one eye on the enemy. “I scarce intend to back down now, I only hope I have not entered the wrong side of the fight.”

The other gave a mirthless laugh. “Only if you are a thief yourself and not the fair-minded man you seem.” The circle began to close. “Take care, they are skilled and strong.”

“They seemed so.” Walter gave his sword an experimental swirl, flicking the slowing rain about. "More skilled than a vagrant’s wont, I dare say.”

“Unfortunately,” he thought he heard the knight mutter, but there was no time to be sure, for their enemy was upon them.

As before, the fifth hung back and sent his henchmen forward, two against the young knight, one each against Walter and the knight’s companion. With the first jarring clash of steel, he knew he’d underestimated his foes. He parried the attack, his blade locking against his opponent’s for a second, bringing them face to face. The man laughed at his surprise.

“Tougher than ye thought, eh? That'll show ye to stick yer nose where ye shouldn’t. Ye had better have ridden on.”

“Hardly.” Walter braced himself against the slippery ground and shoved the man back a few steps, disengaging quickly and standing ready for the next attack. “I never have taken orders well, I would not start now.”

The man snarled. “You will die, along with them.”

“I should think not,” he retorted, but his foot stuck in the mud when he made to move away from the man’s advance. Gritting his teeth, he threw up his blade, still trying to pull his foot free, but a warning cry from the young knight caught his attention.

“Duck!”

He ducked, sweeping his blade in front of him.

A Note from the Author

Beginning this chapter, I only knew how it would end, and of those within I knew only Walter and the young knight. The man in Clerkenwell, the young knight’s companions, the leader of his attackers, those I met along the way. If you enjoyed this chapter or know someone who would, leave a like and a comment and share it with your friends!

Keep a close eye out for the next installment, coming next Tuesday, and if you haven’t yet, check out the last! ⤵︎

Until next time,

Blessings!

~Lexi

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